Gary stared at his toaster, its crumb tray agape like a stunned fish. He’d plugged it in three minutes ago, but the bread had yet to emerge. Instead, a low rumble vibrated through his apartment—subwoofers in his socks, tremors in his teeth. Then, with a hiss, the toaster spat out a charred hockey puck. Gary leaned closer. The puck was… moving?
“What the hell…?” he whispered.
The toaster’s metal jaws clanked open again, ejecting a second puck, then a third. They rolled across the counter, twitching like overcooked noodles. Gary backed into a cabinet, knocking over a jar of pickles. The lids popped off in unison.
“Okay, okay,” he said, hands raised. “We can talk about this!”
The toaster’s light flickered red. A voice, deep and synthesized, boomed from its vents: **”ERROR. BREEDING CYCLE INITIATED.”**
Gary sprinted to the outlet, yanking the plug. The room went silent. Except for the sound of something squelching in his cereal bowl.
He peered over the counter. The toast pucks had pooled into a gelatinous mass, tendrils snaking toward his milk.
“Not today,” he said, hurling a spatula. It struck the sludge with a wet *thwack*. The mess recoiled, then surged forward—now shaped like a disapproving frown.
Gary grabbed his keys. “Cereal it is,” he muttered, fleeing as the toaster emitted a final, mournful beep.
The next day, a news alert blared: **”Local Man Found Eating Toast With A Spoon.”**
